insurgent: a collection of mystwalker
by thir13enth
Summary: "You have an odd sense of loyalty, you know," he murmured. —mystwalker drabbles
1. off the record

**Yeah, I miss Edolas. A pig will probably fly before Mashima will consider doing an Edolas spinoff/update…but I guess that's why we write fanfiction.**

 **So, I'm starting this series of Mystwalker drabbles. And to begin, I'm** **taking a stab at celebrating Mystwalker Week this year! Hopefully I'll get some good stuff out of the next seven days! :D**

 **First thing's first: loyalty.**

* * *

 **off the record**

* * *

When the king asked for updates from his court officials, it was clear that the insurgent monarch paid more attention to some news over others—

A smile graced King Jellal's lips as he listened to the ridiculous stories told of the once-illegal organization, and a certain scarlet-haired elite didn't like the look of the toothy grin on the man's face.

"You're always quite interested in hearing about Fairy Tail, aren't you, your Majesty?" the head of the Royal Army so then remarked. "You still seem attached to guilds—maybe, the other universe—is what I mean."

Her comment wiped the smile off his face.

"Are you suspecting that I'm biased towards guilds, Captain?" he asked her, eyes turning toward him.

"I never said that," she shot back.

"Do you trust my judgment?"

"To be honest, no."

"I thought you swore loyalty to the crown."

"I thought you promised to think for the kingdom and not just for yourself."

"Captain Knightwalker," he suddenly snapped, in a tone rare to the kind king.

He glared at her in a way that made them shudder—just as the Great Demon Lord Dragneel had a couple of months prior. The other subordinates around the Royal Army's captain looked at her from the side, and they were surprised that her sierra eyes were staring right back at the king.

She looked at him in the same way the former Fairy Hunter used to eye her prey. She could rip apart souls with that gaze and they were surprised that their ultramarine Highness was still in one piece.

The rest of them knew they didn't want to be part of this fight, and when their Majesty finally dismissed them, not removing his cold dead stare at the scarlet-haired warrior, they immediately disassembled from the meeting hall and quietly went on their way to their chambers, deciding to wait until a final decision about the policies on guilds.

Neither spoke until everyone else had left the room. But they held the silence between them for as long as possible, teasing the tension.

Jellal snapped first, wrinkling his nose.

"Fine, you win," he admitted, looking downwards to separate him from her intense gaze.

Said victor smirked, a devilish sneer curling her pink lips.

"You can cut back on the 'defy the ruler' game a little bit," the king continued.

Erza's grin didn't disappear, and she slinked slowly up his throne, leaning over him and pinning his wrists down onto the armrests of his chair. She pushed her mouth into his hair and breathed over the shell of his right ear, tickling the hairs at the back of his neck.

"And what if I don't?" she defied, in a salacious whisper. "Would you accuse me of treason? Lock me up in chains and tie me down?"

"You have an odd sense of loyalty, you know," he murmured, nuzzling her neck. "I might have to punish you for that."

And oh, her sentence was definitely not going in the records tonight.

* * *

 **Hmm...not sure if the rating for this fic will go upwards, lol...**

 **thir13enth**


	2. satiated

**Mystwalker Week 2015 day two prompt: royalty. This one is short. Actually all of these so far are a lot shorter than I expect them to be...**

 **Anyway, yah, sorry. I know it's day three of Mystwalker Week but I'm going to be a day behind for now. :P**

* * *

 **satiated**

* * *

She settles into his royal purple covers and slips her body through the silken sheets but the soft and smooth fabrics rest uneasily over her callused skin.

She feels like she's lying in clouds and is drifting through the heavens. She can't tell where her body begins and ends. She feels nothing but an itchy heat lying next to him, and that's how she knows she's flown too high and come to close to the sun.

She discreetly shifts away from his body, but there's not much space for her to move when she's entangled in his embrace.

"You should eat a little more," he frowns, his fingers slowly running down the line of her spine down her back, his eyes gazing at the hard edges of her collarbone—which cave in a lot deeper than he first remembers them.

"I don't need to," she replies.

His chocolate eyes—decadent and dark—flicker up to meet her. He stares so hard into her soul that the insides of her stomach curl.

"I want you to," he tells her, almost like a command.

She is infamous for her insurgence, and the late night is not an off time.

She is always on duty.

"I can't indulge in your riches," she explains. Her nose slightly turns up, as if disgusted by the very scent of unnecessary gluttony.

"Why not?"

She doesn't get into the details. She lets him gnaw at the bones of her calcified resolve and doesn't give him anything more.

She's close enough to smell his sweat, close enough to smell his blood.

He is not akin to her.

"I don't deserve anything more than you do," he suddenly says.

The wise king doesn't understand. There was more distance between them than their touching, bare, and flushed skin.

She keeps her mouth shut. She's not hungry for intimacy and she won't feed words to conversation.

He knows she won't say anything more. He knows that she won't give him anything nor let him give her anything. He knows she's stubborn and dictates herself by a book of unwritten rules. He knows that he can't do much but wait for her to accept his warmth and nourishment.

So he leans in to kiss her, but she dismisses herself.

She doesn't taste his full lips again.

That is enough for the night.

* * *

 **Well. You know me. By default, I write angst. Let me know what you think!**

 **thir13enth**


	3. white dove

**Yes. I indeed am trying to incorporate the word 'insurgent' or some form of it in each of these drabbles for this series. At some point, I'll get sick of the word (as I'm sure you already are) and perhaps stop, but I'm making it a challenge for myself.**

 **Okie okie, prompt for the third day: AU.**

* * *

 **white dove**

* * *

"Do you believe in magic?" he asks.

"I used to," she replies.

He gives her a small playful smile, and she doesn't like the arrogance behind the curve of his lips. It's like the smirk of a shiny new blade and it intends to wound her.

She won't let it. She's not simple-minded. Does he take her at face value? Does he see her beauty and assume she doesn't have a matching head to go with it?

She's a woman in Vegas, but he will need a lot more luck if he is trying to outwit her.

"Keep me company for a second," he says, cocky and confident in his black suit, red tie.

"Only if you entertain me long enough," she retorts, insurgent and indifferent in her black dress, red hair.

He pulls out a deck of cards. She expects it.

"Pick one," he tells her. He presents all 52 options to her.

She chooses. She aims for the ace of spades, and her observant fingers are right on target. She shows him the black suit and he nods his head. She slips the card back into his spread hand.

He gathers the cards together and shuffles them quickly. He builds the practiced tension of his art, explicitly showing her every action that is supposed to distract her from the important one. He treats her like the rest of his foolish audience.

"Now you see it…" he breathes.

"—and now you don't," she sneers, interrupting the climax and snatching the hidden card from the inside of his wrist. "I know how your tricks work."

She flips her wrist and looks at the card's face before she looks back at his face.

The king of hearts.

She doesn't reveal her confusion, but her wide eyes betray her.

"Huh," he remarks, innocently. "Looks like you stole my heart."

* * *

 **...mehhh, lol what a cheesy ending.**

 **thir13enth**


	4. at war with love

**Honestly I don't know what the fuck this is. I scrapped this together and…I don't know. This turned angsty-er than I wanted it to be and I'm not particularly in love with it.**

* * *

 **at war with love**

* * *

Her body was a masterpiece, and if he was a better artist, he'd paint the stories of all her scars.

He wasn't though—he didn't know any color aside from scarlet—so all he did was ask her questions:

"What is your worst scar?" he asked her, in the middle of a quiet dinner in his private dining hall.

"I was training a Legion," she answered, almost immediately. "It was young and insurgent, and I was young and inexperienced."

He tried to imagine what kind of a scar one of the diabolical creatures would have created. Legions were many orders larger than human beings, and he wondered where exactly the scar was. He tried to imagine, but it was difficult to place the marred past, even with her preferred lack of clothing.

There was still so much she covered up.

…

Her body was a machine, and if he was a better mechanic, he'd smooth all her worries with fresh grease.

He wasn't though—he didn't know any polish slicker than tears—so all he did was ask her questions:

"When did you stop caring about your skin?" he asked her, as his finger graced a raised and long-healed trail along her arm.

"I never cared about it in the first place," she replied, without hesitation. "I dedicate myself to the Crown, and there no room left for anything else."

He wondered when she began her dedication to royal blood. She never talked about any family or any past. She was just the Captain, and she seemed to want to always be just the Captain. He wondered how she had climbed up the ranks to stand where she was now, and if she was willing to climb any higher.

She said she had nothing but the Crown, but did she also mean him?

…

Her body was a library, and if he was a better writer, he'd create books about the tales of her sacrifices.

He wasn't though—and he didn't know words stronger than commands—so all he did was ask her questions:

"Who else knows about your injuries?" he asked her, after her report back to him about the army.

"Everyone knows I have them," she responded, not wasting a second. "They aren't uncommon in my field of work."

He remembered the last time she returned to the capital, limping on her right leg. She had comrades surrounding her and the army medic pleading her to rest. She refused all treatments and retreated directly to her room, locking the door. He remembered that she ignored all the concerned knocks, but that when he called her name late that night, she opened up to him right away.

There was so little distance—yet so much separation—between them.

…

Her body was her own, and if he was any better at loving, he'd might have had a chance to share it with her.

He wasn't though—and he didn't know her at all—so all he could do was ask her questions.

Questions that she always answered but never gave him what he wanted to hear.

"Why did you cut your hair?" he asked her, in the morning as she was dressing.

"I looked in the mirror and didn't like who I saw," she replied.

He watched her bend down to pick up her clothes from the ground, thrown onto the floor during desperate lovemaking the night before. He rather liked her hair short—he had only really met her after she chopped off her locks and to be honest, he didn't want to confuse a previous homeland with the one he had now.

Aside from that, he presumed that her shoulder-length hair wouldn't curtain her body from him like her longer more rogue hair would have.

But he learned quickly that she was quick with dressing herself anyway.

She was _always_ quick to dress herself.

He thought that by letting her into his bed, she'd let him into her heart.

But he learned quickly that this would never be the case.

"You always turn the lights off," he said.

It wasn't a question, so she didn't give him an answer.

"Why do you always turn the lights off?" so he rephrased.

She took a beat longer to reply. "I don't want to taint your eyes," she admitted.

"What do you mean?"

"You shouldn't have to know the full consequences of your orders," she explained, her voice raising. The scarf—the one she was trying to wrap back around her neck—was shaky in her hands.

"Why not?"

"Because you're the _king_ ," she hissed, the word a curse on her tongue.

"You wouldn't do this if I were any other king sitting on this throne, would you?" he returned. "Why do you always protect me?"

Her eyes closed and her teeth were biting hard on her lip. She was about to shatter, and he suddenly wasn't sure if he was more upset seeing her real turmoil or seeing her fake disposition.

"I don't know!" she finally snapped. "Stop asking me questions!"

She stormed out of his chambers, and he was left with the thunder of her angry footsteps.

He looked back down at his soft hands—incapable of drawing, fixing, writing—without anything except the blood to rule.

…

Her mind was puzzle, and if he was better at finding solutions, he'd might have been able to help her put together the pieces.

He wasn't though—and he barely knew right from wrong—so all he could do was wait for an answer.

* * *

 **Brrr...I just read it again and I still don't know what I had been thinking. Let me know your thoughts!**

 **thir13enth**


	5. smiles and scars

**A note about me: everything that I write crashes and becomes angst by default. You can give me two happy and full squirrels about to hibernate and I can create angst in the midst of their warm home in the dead of the winter frost.**

 **So when the prompt 'war wounds' comes up, of** ** _course_** **, I go down that pathological road of mine. But sometimes I have pleasant ideas. So here's the first non-angst Mystwalker I'm writing. Cheers.**

 **This is like...the second interpretation of the prompt: war wounds, lol. I'm obsessed. In a bad way.**

* * *

 **smiles and scars**

* * *

Erza was proud of each and every inch of her marred skin. She knew the story behind each raised bump of skin and every callus and edge, but the one scar she would never understand-

"It looks like a cyclops," Jellal said, with a teasing smile.

Her head snapped up, eye venomous. "What did you just call my stomach?"

"A cyclops," he repeated.

He returned an innocent grin and kissed her bellybutton. She pursed her lips, seeing her deformed skin, and then shifted her eyes back to the window.

"Your bellybutton's the eye, and this…" he explained, tracing the thin curved line just above her pelvis. "…is the big and wide smile."

The king noticed that his wife wasn't looking down to where he was pointing. He decided to not bother her about it. After all, if there was anything that the former captain of the Royal Army knew, it was that all scars healed over time.

Only this scar wasn't like her others. In fact, this scar was a little too perfect—a straight line—and that's what made it so imperfect to her.

"I didn't expect to get most of my scars, you know," she suddenly admitted.

He looked back at her. "You didn't expect this one either."

"Exactly," she said.

His eyebrows furrowed slightly.

"Exactly," she repeated to herself, softly this time.

He shifted his body, moving next to her and putting his arm around her shoulders. He brought her in close to him before kissing her on the top of her head.

"I thought I would at least have been able to do something as simple as get the baby out of me," she mumbled. "I was complaining so much about being so round and I was so excited when the water first broke…"

She trailed off and he thought carefully before replying.

"Well, that's how we know the baby got the best of our genes, right? Gave the mother a good fight on the way out."

Her right index finger continuing to silently trace the ripples and valleys of her once protruding torso.

"The baby was a rebel before even born," he continued, cautiously taking her right hand away from herself and pressing a kiss onto the back of it. "You don't think that's good?"

"A little insurgence is nice, I guess," she presumed, taking back her hand from him. "Maybe he'll overthrow you as well."

Jellal raised an eyebrow. "You're never going to let me hear the end of it, are you?"

"Just imagine what the baby is going to grow up to be as an adolescent," she hummed. "Like child, like father."

"Like child, like mother," he retorted. "You didn't obey any of my commands the first year I transitioned back into the throne!"

She glared at him. "Are you telling me it's _my_ fault our child is going to be a pain in the ass? Because I think I'm looking right at the very person that gave the baby _those_ genes—"

"—and _I'm_ looking right at the very person that gave this gift of a baby to me," he replied, smooth and sweet, leaning forward to kiss her on the mouth.

She rolled her eyes, but couldn't help the smile that finally cracked on her lips.

* * *

 **thir13enth**


	6. humpty dumpty

**Mystwalker Week 2k15, prompt: (first) fight. Lol I had suchhhh struggles trying to figure out where this one was going.**

* * *

 **humpty dumpty**

* * *

Knightwalker continually had to remind herself that just because the King had royal blood within him didn't mean that he didn't have fight within him too.

"Hmph!" she exhaled out forcefully, swinging her "Magic" Spear back to her default handling position, its quadra-tipped head pointing downwards to the concrete floor of the training room. She was crouched back—her left hand poised in front of her, ready to fend off any attacks—and circled around her blue-haired opponent slowly.

"I forgot that you were often on the front lines in your _other_ world," she sneered. "Seems like your little princely ass didn't always get to hide an army of shields."

His eyebrows furrowed and he gave her a short laugh. "I was an S-Class Mage in Earthland, thank you very much," he replied, eyes following her snake-like movement around him.

"That doesn't mean anything to me," she retorted, suddenly kicking up her left leg and using the momentum to whip her weapon underhandedly at the man. "Especially since there's no magic here, your _Majesty_."

He blocked off both points of her offense—stopping her foot by grabbing hold of her ankle and knocking off her charging spear with his wooden "magic" stave—and left her in a rather compromising position, keeping her kicked up leg extended above her waist.

"Doesn't a warrior like you rather prefer hand-to-hand combat, anyway?" Jellal smirked, especially when seeing her roll her eyes at his naïve move.

She leaned the rest of her torso back onto her spear, balancing the tip onto the ground, allowing herself the ability to kick up her right leg at his unguarded face.

He ducked off, letting her go, and she hopped back into a defensive stance.

"More like foot-to-your-face combat," she snorted, wrinkling her nose.

"Oh, you're so clever," he remarked, regaining his balance and cracking his neck to the side, a dark smile gracing his countenance.

And within the next second, he raced back towards her, parrying his stave against her spear in a series of whacks, thrusts, and plenty of ducking and swiveling around. She felt her heart beat quicken with the rush of adrenaline and the buzz of a mental challenge. They were fighting to the point where she couldn't just rely on her instincts, and she had to start thinking about how to break past their point of equal ratio of offense and defense and turn it to her advantage.

The scarlet-haired woman calculated—observing his steady points and his patterns of movement—and skillfully managed to bring the man back against the wall of the training hall, her vicious eyes and the sharp tip of her spear pointed at him.

"Indeed, your Majesty," she leered, continuing their conversational dispute. "I don't just rely on brute strength when I fight."

"Of course," he replied. "I wouldn't expect anything less from the heralded Captain of my most powerful Royal Army, now would I?"

The smirk on her face grew acutely, insurgent to her desire to not outwardly suggest that she might have actually _enjoyed_ hearing his approval of her.

"But—" and within that second, she noticed his staff swinging around to the backs of her knees, "—you're letting your ego get ahead of yourself," he countered.

She first felt the whack of his staff to backs of her knees, then cursed the immediate buckling of her knees, before falling down to the ground on her back. He mirrored the position that she had brought him down to just moments before—except this time, she was flat on the floor and he was looking down at her with didactic eyes and the blunt end of his once-magical stave.

"I'd call that a win for me then, Knightwalker."

Said subordinate glared at him.

At some point, the King felt pity—at the power imbalance, she presumed—and he put away his staff and stretched a hand down to help her up.

She didn't take it. Neither the hand nor the pity.

"Please, Captain. Take my hand," he insisted. "I won't count this against you as an extra win for me."

"An _extra_ win?" she suddenly asked him, a snarky grin climbing over her lips.

And before he knew it—her legs twisted around, catching hold of his ankle—and he came crashing down onto his side, groaning at the impact and slowly curling into as discrete of a fetal position as he could.

She snorted. "I never lost."

* * *

 **thir13enth**


	7. crave

for an **anonymous** request: 46, crave + mystwalker, please (:

 **notes:** ah! i haven't written mystwalker in a very long time! thank you for requesting this!

* * *

If there's one thing that Knightwalker despises more than the undeservingly-crowned King himself, it's that she absolutely hates that she is still jealous of his riches.

She swallows thickly as the smell of meat and other savory foods reaches her nose. She keeps her eyes focused on a single brick on the wall directly across from her, counting to twenty forwards and backwards. Every now and then a puff of steam whisks into her vision, floating in as a serpentine trail of delicious and aromatic herbs would.

She blinks, wishing it out of her sight. She blinks, but finds her eyes slowly following the steam trail back to its origin...

The King is having a glorious meal, complete with hams and gravies of all different kinds. There is a full basket of bread off to the side, plenty of cheese and fruits, and a couple large soup bowls filled with thick hearty chowder. Towards the end of the table lies a fresh pie — apple, she can smell it from all the way where she is — and plenty of bottles of unopened wine bottles just waiting to be tried out.

He is eating voraciously, and she doesn't blame him. She watches him masticate one, two, three times, before she rips her eyes away from the dinner table.

Her eyes are back on the brick on the wall, but she can still very clearly see remnants of the seasoned oil on his _lips_ — and oh, how she _absolutely hates_ that she is _craving_.

She swallows once more, trying to separate herself from her wants from her needs.

She reminds herself that she hates everything royal — it's why the oh-so-high-and-mighty rulers need bodyguards like her to stand beside them all day — because they've turned so soft that they can't even fend for themselves.

She reminds herself that she'd rather suffer a little bit rather than lie comfortably in a reclined seat, because she firmly believes it so much more worth it to work for her earnings than to just sit and receive them.

She reminds herself that she will never give in to —

Her stomach growls.

It's now when she feels immensely dissatisfied with herself.

The soft sound of chewing from the King stops, and although she hasn't taken her eyes off that damned brick on the opposite side of the room, she can tell that he's turned his head towards her and she can absolutely tell that he is looking her up and down and _smirking_.

"Craving something, Captain?"

* * *

 **thir13enth**


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